Just A Man
by Moranth
Summary: What if Shepard wasn't such a superman? What if he had a fatal flaw that proved he was human? Story continued in Feet of Clay
1. Just A Man

It started with an itch; one that began in his fingertips and crept up his arms and across his skin like thousands of bugs crawling, slithering. Sometime he'd snap his finger or rub his arms even in his armor to relieve his discomfort, but it never worked.

He thought his problem would have died with him. When he was rebuilt, what should have been a fresh start had been only an extended vacation. He'd lasted until they'd docked on Omega and it hadn't taken him long to track down a dealer and get what he needed. When the red asari came calling, you didn't turn an invitation like that down lightly.

Now he was locked in his quarters, his latest purchase chopped into four fine lines on his desk. He steeped his fingers and leaned back in his chair, eyeing his nemesis, his lover, having the same silent debate that he always had before he eventually gave in.

He didn't have to do this; put everything in jeopardy for a few minutes of a fleeting rush, to get a taste of what Jack took for granted, to feel like a god.

It had all been a game at first. He was just a good solider who'd got bored and was curious about what life as a biotic was like. He'd gotten a hold of some sand through a friend of a friend, a onetime thing had turned into just once more and that was all she wrote. He'd been hooked ever since.

He rolled the cylinder of paper between his thumb and forefinger, watching the sand as if hoping something would blow it away and save him from himself.

Nothing came. He knew it wouldn't. This wasn't a fairy tale. There was nothing glamorous or romantic about his life, what he was doing, any of it. He was just a man with a problem, doing a job.

He leaned forward and shut his eyes tight, trying to block out what he was doing and snorted, pinching one nostril and then the other, a line in each. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he sat up, feeling it burn his sinuses. His eyes watered as he felt it coursing through him, his synapses starting to fire.

Before he could start to feel it, before he could feel the kick, there was a knock at the door. It was too early to pretend to be asleep. Experience told him that whoever it was probably wouldn't leave until he made them leave.

He stood, on shaky legs, throwing a few papers over his shame before heading to the door. He took a few carefully measured steps, the floor moving beneath him.

He opened the door a crack to see Garrus standing before him, a few ration packets in hand. Shepard eyed him darkly.

"You missed dinner again, Shepard." He waved a carefully sealed package clearly marked _Levo_.

"I thought I'd bring you up something." He tried to look over Shepard's head into the darkened room.

"Thanks a lot man, I owe you one." Shepard said tersely as he accepted the food, eager to send Garrus on his way.

"Can we talk?"

_Shit. Here we go._

"Can it wait?"

"I'm afraid it's rather important." Garrus said, gripping the door frame, rooting himself to the spot.

Shepard stepped aside, admitting him. Hopefully this wouldn't take long. Garrus' mouth twitched. The room was a mess, littered with clothes and empty food containers from when he remembered to eat. He rarely ate whole meals now and never in the mess hall.

"The crew and I," he began as he stepped around a pile of clothes, "We're worried about you."

Shepard sighed, as he dropped down in his chair. He kicked his feet up on the desk as nonchalantly as possible, taking care to not disturb his papers.

"Look, Shepard. I know you're doing sand."

"What are you talking about?" Shepard tried to laugh it off, but didn't meet his gaze.

"I've seen it before. You've got all the symptoms: You're twitchy, and that's saying something for a human, you sweat profusely and you smell terrible." He stepped towards him, "But mostly, it's in the eyes."

Garrus gripped the desk as stared him down. "You don't focus. It's like I'm not even here."

He knocked the papers to the floor, spilling the sand. Shepard knelt, trying to salvage what he could as the former agent loomed over him.

"I've known for a while. Pretty much since we were on the first Normandy and I figured I'd let it be but now it's affecting your work. You're getting sloppy.

"I haven't told anyone else yet. I wanted to give you a chance to clean yourself up, but if you can't-"

"Don't tell me what to do with my life. I have my shit perfectly under control. Now if you don't mind; kindly get the fuck out of here."

Garrus snapped his mouth shut, a mixture of emotions swept over his features, finally settling on pained. He dropped the food on the only empty space he could find and headed towards the door. He lingered at the threshold, a look of disappointment crossing his face as he watched his commander scrabbling on the floor.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

* * *

"Give it to me," Shepard said in hushed tones as he blocked the batarian from view. Both of them were some where they shouldn't have been: a batarian on the Citadel, and Shepard in the sleaziest part of the wards. He was supposed to be out looking for clues that would lead them closer to what the collectors were after. Instead, he was shaking down any dealer he could find for a fix.

"Look, I told you I don't have any. C-Sec's been cracking down. The good stuff's getting harder to get."

"I don't give a shit about _the good stuff_," he said mockingly. "Just give me what you've got on your right now."

The batarian eyed him warily, before checking the pockets of his suit. Shepard licked his lips.  
A week. He'd lasted a week without a fix. A week since Garrus had left him huddled on the floor, sucking whatever sand he could from his fingertips.

He felt low. He felt degraded. He told himself he'd made an honest effort to stop and he would; after this time, after a goodbye party for an old friend.

You didn't just throw away something that stayed with you for ten years – even following you through death and back. You had to ease off it gently, slowly, but nowhere near as slow as this batarian was moving.

Shepard pulled out his pistol and didn't even give the batarian the chance to look up. He slapped him hard across the face, staggering him.

"Don't fuck with me. I don't have time to play with you. Give me what I need and you just might make it out of this without a bullet in your head."

The batarian didn't whimper as his lip started to swell. He handed over a thin package, looking Shepard in the eye as best he could.

Shepard looked the package over, weighing it in his hand. It was light.  
"Is this it?"

The dealer avoided eye contact, but said nothing.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Shepard lurched forward and grabbed him by the collar.

"You still trying to hold out on me?"

"No, human. I know who you are. I'm not trying to end up dead."

Shepard was snapping his fingers.

"'_You know who I am_'? What? Are you threatening me?"

"That's not what I meant. I just-"

Shepard swung and hit him hard in the gut, making him double over with pain. He brought his armored knee up fast into the dealer's face. He fell back on his ass, blood gushing from his now broken nose and mouth.

Shepard kneeled over him, searching every pocket of his jumpsuit. They all came up empty. He was telling the truth.

Shepard stood and dropped a credit chit at his feet that covered his purchase and then some.  
The batarian looked up questioningly, three of his four eyes quickly swelling shut.

Shepard couldn't look at him.

He backed out of the alley and took off at a run, not looking back.

_Calm down_, he told himself, _He's a batarian. He probably did something to deserve that at one point or another._ But that look he gave him stayed with him. It wasn't anger, or rage. It was disgust. To be pitied by some of the lowest scum in the galaxy.

He'd fallen low.

* * *

His fingers itched.

Hell, everything itched, even his gums. He sat there looking at his ill-gotten goods, the wrapper stained with the dealer's blood.

He didn't have to do this.

He'd gone straight to his quarters, not stopping when they'd asked him about the blood on his armor. He didn't answer when they came to the door; Jacob, Miranda, Kelly. There'd been no Garrus this time. Maybe he'd given up on him, maybe even jumped ship. He couldn't blame him.

Shepard was a disgrace, an embarrassment. But it wasn't his fault.

Cerberus had to have known when they'd rebuilt him. Surely, there had been some trace of sand in his system. They could have taken it out of him. It had to be someone, any one's fault but his, but he knew. There was no one to blame for his troubles but himself; no reason other than a force of habit had sent him spinning out of control again.

He took up the package that had been staring him down, mocking him. It was light, no more than a few grams at the most and yet something so insubstantial had done so much damage to his record, his self-esteem, his life.

His hands shook as he unwrapped it; each granule stared up at him, beckoning him to have just a little. He'd come this far, gone through so much, why not reward himself. His mouth started to water as held it away from him, afraid to even touch the substance with his bare skin.

He had to look away as he dumped it in the toilet, fizzing as it hit the water. He bit down on his lip until it bled, resisting the urge to try to salvage it. He knew he would be in the bowl up to his elbows unless he did it now.

He flushed, watching it spiral down and away to parts unknown. He retched, his already weak stomach just now catching up to the gravity of his actions, his body revolting at being denied that which it so desperately craved.

It was over. He crawled over to the shower and turned it on. He sat on the floor and let it pound against his back, soaking his clothes. The rhythm of gave him comfort against the emptiness he felt inside, keeping it at bay. He watched the water run off his body and down the drain, tinted red.

He felt better, still like shit, but better than before. He knew the next few days would be Hell, but he owed it to himself to give it an honest try.

After an hour he turned the water off and changed clothes. He was hungry, for the first time in… He wasn't sure how long. He knew he had some explaining to do to a number of people, and he would, but after he got some actual food in him.

Shepard opened the door to his cabin and practically tripped over Garrus, asleep just outside. Garrus woke with a start, looking up at his commander.

"You look like shit," he gibed, unfolding his legs from under him.

"Look who's talking." Shepard said, extending a hand to help Garrus to his feet.

"C'mon," he said, slapping Garrus on the arm, "Let's go eat,"


	2. Alternate Ending

"I'm sorry," Shepard said to the open air of the abandoned medbay. He sat beside the only occupied bed, the gentle _beep-beep-beep_ of the monitoring equipment his only company.

"I'm so sorry." He wasn't sure he was being heard, but no matter how many times he said it, it would never be enough. Shepard had fucked up, big and now his friend lay in this bed, surrounded by tubes and wires to make sure he was still breathing. He really fucked up.

_He'd been dusting up when the call came in. _

The incident on the Citadel had shaken him hard. The desperation he felt, what he did to that dealer. He felt awful. He needed to forget, didn't want to be here, didn't want to be him.

Shepard started using heavy, losing himself in nothing more than cheap parlor tricks the left him comfortably numb.

He tried popping stims to cancel out the sand, but the effects didn't last long. By the time they'd touched down on some dinky backwater planet, he could feel the ground swaying beneath him.

Some vorcha claiming to be Bloodpack members had seized a warehouse and made hostages of everyone inside. The plan was simple; Jacob and Garrus would grab their attention to distract them while someone else took them out. Shepard was on sniping detail.

"Switch with me, Shepard." Garrus had asked him for the third time. He was starting to piss Shepard off.

"Negative, Vakarian. I've got this one."

"But I _really_ wish you'd switch." Garrus said, trying to not seem too anxious.

"What are you, my mother? Go take your fucking position. " Garrus had kowtowed to him then, but that wouldn't be the end of it.

Shepard felt bad for snapping at him now. He was right. Shepard had no business on the field in the state he was in, but he had anyway. Even now he couldn't say why; cockiness? Fear of having his secret brought to light? What did that matter now?

_Garrus was paying the price for Shepard's arrogance. _

Things had gone downhill in hurry.

His hands were too shaky to aim properly. His shot missed its mark by inches, wounding the leader. They were made.

The vorcha started firing in his direction in a panic.

Garrus ran in, trying to hustle the hostages out before the vorcha remembered they were expendable. Jacob tried to cover him, but he hadn't been fast enough.

The hail of fired ripped through his shields, leaving him vulnerable. In an instant, Garrus was down and not moving.

When the dust settled, all of the vorcha and half of the hostages were dead, and Garrus lay injured and bleeding for the second time since they'd met up on Omega.

Miranda had relieved him of his command until the mission was over or his sobered up; whichever would come first. As far as the crew knew, he was still in charge, but the rest of the squad, they'd have to be told.

Shepard could already picture their faces; eyes full of pity and contempt, looking down on their commander with feet of clay. He felt sick to his stomach. He didn't ask for this, he didn't want any of it. He wished he could shrink, disappear, be numb.

He didn't even really feel like dusting up, but he knew if he went back to his quarters he would.

"…Accepted..."

His head snapped up, to see Garrus, watching him, one eye open.

"Apology… accepted…" he said lazily, painkillers dulling his tongue.

Tears stung his eyes as he watched his friend try to force a smile, to pretend like everything was ok, nothing amiss.

He turned away, unable to bare it.

"I'm so sorry." He said again, his gaze fixed on the terminal across the room.

Garrus' hand snaked out, latching onto Shepard's wrist. He tugged on it until Shepard looked at him. His face was all business, any pretenses of a smile fallen away.

He looked Shepard in the eye as best he could from hiss prone position.

"Prove it."


End file.
